Sunflower Wreath
by NerdAndProudForever
Summary: AU Amelia Pond is a painter who lives in Venice. One day , her painting starts talking to her. The haunting painting of Vincent Van Gogh. But can Vincent help Amy find the meaning of life? (Trigger Warning : Suicide) (One-Shot)


**So , wow. I dont usually write stuff this depressing. Trigger : Suicide. **

**Major character death. You have been warned! **

* * *

Amelia Pond bit her lip in concentration as she put on the finishing touches on her latest pairing. She looked at her painting again. Something was unsettling about the it.

Maybe the colour was off. She signed as she set down her brushes , and wiped her colour smeared hands on her shirt. She had drawn the first thing that had come to her mind. It was , of course , Vincent Van Gogh.

He was an idol in her mind. She mourned his life more than he had. She could never truly understand why he killed himself. She did in a literal sense , but never otherwise.

His red hair flowed like a coppery sun on her canvas. His skin was pale and his mouth formed a hard line with delicate strokes of pink and red.

Even in suffering , he was beautiful. She smiled as she gently touched the canvas , feeling the wetness of the painting. The background was a meld of different shades of blue and yellow. It reminded her fondly of the somber sky she had seen one afternoon in Venice.

Her hand trailed to his hair , as she gently evened out the rough strokes with her hand. Her hand dropped abruptly as she was startled by her phone ringing.

"Hello?" , she said and a loud , obnoxious voice came out form the other end. "Amy! I thought you were dead" , the voice said and she singed.

"I wish I were" , she said and the obnoxious voice snorted.

The voice belonged to none other than her so-called friend, Rani.

"Rani , I'm busy" , she said and her accomplice made a disapproving noise.

"Like I said , Amelia , you're a loser and a bad painter" , she said and hung up. Amy brought to phone towards her face , staring at it with accusing eyes. In a fit of spontaneity , she flung it to the wall. The phone promptly shattered against the wall , taking out a nice chunk of the wall along with it.

It was hard being a struggling painter in Venice because they were many others , many better than her.

She felt her hear race as her eyes pooled with unshed tears. The next few minutes were a mad dash to her drawer. In it , contained the single most valuable item she owned. A gun. She had brought the gun a few weeks back , because wasn't it how everything ended?

She felt the sharp taste of salt in her mouth , as her tears were now falling freely. She put the trigger to her temple as her finger tested the cold metal of the trigger.

"Hello"

She stopped abruptly and opened her eyes that had closed on impulse. She looked around and saw no one.

"Here"

She looked at her painting. Vincent's mouth was no longer in a hard line , but in a small sad smile. His hair seemed to have come alive and were strewn across his face.

Amy was unsure for a moment before she asked, "Am I hallucinating?"

"Yes" , the kind painting answered and Amy nodded , the gun still fixed to her head. "And you're here to tell me that there's something to live for , the person who practically killed himself?" , she sneered darkly at Vincent who shook his head sadly , as if it pained him.

"Quite the opposite. But I am here to tell you something" , he said and Haven nodded bravely as the gun had begun shaking in her hand , the tremors growing more intense with each passing minute.

"I know what you want to hear right now isn't what I will tell you , my beloved painter. I have heard the cries of children in the street. I have tasted yellow paint. I have seen what mortals cringe at. Nobody has been my heaven. My safe haven. You are beautiful , and you are worthy. I have always strived to provide myself satisfaction. I cannot , Amy. I had killed myself long before the rusted bullet penetrated me , my sweet Amy. My soul cried in anguish ever moment I lived. You," , he paused "have long died"

Amy cried as she let out a wait of anguish and aimed the gun at her painting.

"It is better to die when you are already dead" , he simply said before she shot the canvas , effectively silencing the painting.

She screamed as she put the gun to her forehead and screamed her last words. She screamed them not just for her family , friends , or even Vincent. She screamed them for herself.

"No more"

Suddenly , the meaning of life became clear.

* * *

**REVIEW!**


End file.
